The Good Chair

When the best easy chair is the only easy chair in the house.

“Welcome,” Panda told Reen, whose watch cap was frosted over with sleet. “Take The Good Chair.” It was mama’s, and lumpy, but had a 'seasonal view' of the Palisades. And mama was out at the live chicken mart.

“I call it!” says Tiger Cub, jumping up and down and further soiling the upholstery with her muddy Vans.

“Get down this minute,” thunders NancyLee. “Grandmaw wouldn’t want you all up in The Good Chair, would she! Now, or you’re gonna get a whupping!”

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S'all good

It’s not at all okay, but the expression comes in handy when it is socially expedient to give reassurance. Interchangeable with No worries.

The tornado wrecked your house, you suffered a mild concussion and three broken ribs, the dog is missing, and you’re on the phone with your hysterically worried mom. “S’all good, you know, mom, s'all good. We’re all alive, praise God, that’s what counts.”

You come home to find your wife fellating your best friend, a relationship you suspected but didn’t want to confront your beloved about for fear she would get mad and divorce you. You were always a wimp. “S’all good, s’all good,” you say as you tiptoe back out of the bedroom. “No worries. See you later, hon.”

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Cuppacetic

When a stint in the local coffee joint delights.

“Everything is absolutely cuppacetic,” swoons Cubby to au pair Natasha from the second Starbucks on the block, his IPhone engrimed with chocochip-scone crumbs. “I’m dead wired on triple green molto frappes. Be home in a few, put Jacob to bed—ta-ta!”

“Cuppacetic!” said Rune, his mania aflame. “I love this place!”
“Get your hand out of my sweater and quaff your quad, you dirty hound,” was the only retort that came to Mamie’s mind.

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Hunkerdown

Place of quarantine.

Mephistopholes remained in his hunkerdown for the rest of the pandemic, emerging only for gingerale, The Wall Street Journal and smoke.

Refusing to go to ground in a hunkerdown, brave Bettina kept her janitorial job at Lincoln Center--which was much easier now that all performances were remote. "My, my," she said later in an oral history of The Covid Time. "Fat cats didn't know if they were coming or going--if I paid 250 a ticket, I'd sure show up for the symphony."

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Fanny Mail

Sexts sent to major stars by rabid fans.

“I was glad I’d done due diligence on the Peloton,” aging Alice grinned as she snugged up her Eileen Fisher trousers. “I wanted the fanny mail I texted The Boss to be taut, and you should have seen that shit.”

“Tracy’s gone over the deep end, gifting fanny mail to all her faves, Drake, Nikky Jam, you name it,” Ike said ruefully. “At least I know the thongs are legit; I ordered smoked lace for her, 3 for 40 bucks from Savage X Fenty, the Valentine’s special.”

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Redtail hawk

Rank and filer in Trump’s war of aggression.

A proud redtail hawk, she came to theJanuary 6 party equipped with a hurtin’ flagpole from her 2nd grade classroom.

“Daddy, is that what you call redtail hawks?” asked little Mimi, pondering MSNBC’s endless loop of veins-in-their-teeth Capitol insurrectionists.

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Casserole

An especially nice dump

“They’re still working with Leo on his toileting – it’s about time, he’s entering kindeegarden soon!” said Grandmaw, “ – so we were happy when the tike left us a nice casserole in the powder room w.c.”
“I thought I smelled something,” said Kath.
“No, that’s the venison stew,” said Grandmaw. “Soup’s on soon.”

Her homeys consigned Beatrice to the garret of Delta Sigma Theta, which had a private bath. When she protested, she was told that her casseroles were too fragrant for the shared space below.

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